IF scorn be thy portion, if hatred and loss, If stripes or a prison, remember the Cross! God watches above thee, and he will requite; Stand firm and be faithful, desert not the right. _Norman M’Leod._
THE subject of our sketch became one of England’s most learned men. He was born in Lichfield, in 1709, and died in 1784. He once made a dictionary of our language; he also wrote “The Rambler,” “Rasselas,” and “The Idler.”
I want to relate to you a little story of him when a small boy. His father kept a bookstand, and one day he said, “Samuel, I am so feeble, I want you to take my place at the stand.”
But the proud boy refused, and the sick father then started off, only saying, “Well, if you can treat your sick father thus, I am sure you will think of it when I am dead and gone.”
His conscience, however, soon began to trouble him. All day he saw his poor father, sick and feeble, sitting at the stall, and he said to himself, “Poor father! how his head will ache. I am so sorry I did not go.”
This unkindness the boy never could forget, and years after, though surrounded by the great of England, it would often recur to him.
Many years passed by, and one day an aged man made his way through the market crowd at Uttoxeter. He stopped at the place which fifty years before had been occupied by the book-seller, and the old gentleman was heard to say:
“Yes; this is the very spot—the very spot!”
It was the great and illustrious man of England, in whose heart still lingered the remembrance of his cruelty to his poor father.
IT is time for Baby Elizabeth to go to bed. She does not want to go to bed. She shakes her head and says, “No bed! No bed!” Her little mouth is puckered up like a round O; here is a big tear in each blue eye. Does Baby want to stay up all night? Shall mamma leave her sitting on the floor all the dark night? No, no! Little mice stay up all night, and run about and nibble and squeal; but dear babies must go to their soft beds.
See! the sun has gone to bed. The little pink clouds are lying down in the sky. The white lilies have gone to sleep. The birdies have gone up in the tree to bed. They are singing a little song to baby. Hark! What do they say? “Go to bed, bed, bed. Good-night, little E-liz-a-beth! Good-night!”